


Chocolate

by ATenmeadows



Category: Glee, Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Multi, Not Beta Read, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:09:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1877691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ATenmeadows/pseuds/ATenmeadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Tony "Tiger" Sawicki and The Orphans have been established as Canada's greatest band of thieves. Now, a new crew from the States is moving in on their turf, their cash, and their hearts. Inspired by "Chocolate" by The 1975. Tony/Rachel, Sarah/Santana, Cosima/Delphine, and Alison/Quinn friendship. Rated M for content and language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Call It A Split

**Author's Note:**

> Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk (who probably should have pulled the plug two seasons ago), and Orphan Black belongs to John Fawcett and Graeme Manson (who should totally keep doing what they're doing).

January 6, 2012 – Toronto, Canada

We’ve been casing the TD Canada Trust building on Yonge Street for a little over a week now. Frenchie’s posing as a Parisian businesswoman handling foreign accounts for some snooty stock trading firm whose name I won’t even fuck with pronouncing. Her blonde hair and sweet as honey accent has the bank managers completely ass-over-mouth for her; one little “oui oui” and they’re all wee-weeing themselves. One of the clerks, greasy asshole with an acne problem and no intention of fixing it, has asked her out for coffee every day since we planted her. Even though she’s politely told him to go fuck himself every time, Rhesus still shits a solid gold brick in her nerd-mobile down off Bay. It’s funny as shit, watching her glasses fog up and her dreads shake with anger. I’m pretty sure the kids passing by that van will never see hot chocolate the same way again.  
They map out the basic security protocols on the conference line with Limey, who draws up four plans to get us in and out before they even finish their sentences. L’s always been a fucking show-off; we never have to ask if she can get the job done. Cocky little shit just asks if we want to be home by lunch or tea time, ‘cause she’d rather not miss her kid draw another stick figure picture of her family or some other boring bullshit.

Casually leaning against a light post, I flick open my silver Zippo lighter and let the flame catch the end of a Belmont Mild, all while keeping my eyes on the revolving glass doors of the building across the road. I look down at the black G-Shock on my wrist. 12:30 PM on the dot. According to Frenchie’s intel, most of the staff are off to lunch and there’s only one clerk at the counter.

I take a good long drag from my smoke before putting it out on the cold metal of the lamp post. I then signal to Tippler on the roof of the café behind me, tucking the short cig into the edge of my dark skull cap.

Time to move.

“Keep it short, Tiger,” Limey’s voice comes over the radio transmitter resting in my ear. “No foul ups.”

I just roll my eyes and keep putting one leather boot in front of the other until I’m staring at my reflection in the perfectly polished entrance.  
But just as I’m about to introduce the patrons of TD Canada Trust to The Beast, the 12 gauge pump action shotgun hidden in my army green trenchcoat, I’m knocked flat on my ass by two bangin’ babes in leather catsuits. They’re hauling ass down the sidewalk, holding hands between their bodies and lugging a pair of enormous nylon duffle bags. They round the corner like fucking track stars, so fast I couldn’t even get a good look at their faces.

“What the fuck –”

I go to lift myself off the ground and I almost lose my shit when my fingers catch onto a thin strip of paper on the cement. A yellow thin strip of paper… with half of Wilfrid Laurier’s old ugly mug staring back at me.

“We’ve been jacked! Everyone clear the fuck out and meet back at the house!” I shout into the radio as I finally get to my feet. I tuck The Beast back into my coat just as the bank’s alarm system starts to go ape shit, and almost like a prayer, she steps out onto the pavement in front of me.

She can’t be more than five foot six, and I think even that’s being pretty fucking generous. But her brown eyes are on fire with adrenaline, and her legs look like they go on for miles. Lush brunette hair falls over the shoulders of a body suit that matches the two sprinters who mowed me down, although I notice that unlike her partners, she’s wearing a North Face backpack. Her juicy pink lips curl into a smile as she comes face to face (or rather, her face to my chest) with me. I kick myself inside because I’m totally not pissed anymore.

This is easily the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.

“Excuse me, Tiger. Girl’s gotta run.” Jesus Christ, even her voice sounds like an orgasm.

She winks at me when she says it too, and damn if it doesn’t get me going like nothing else.

My eyebrows pinch together in confusion when the wave of heat runs its course through me. “How the fuck do you know my –”

I make the mistake of taking a step toward her and before I know it, the rubber sole of her boot collides with my face, knocking me backward onto the curb. I feel my lip gushing blood into my mouth as I stare up at the perpetually gray Toronto sky. The brunette leans over me, smirking like she’s won some gold medal or some shit.

“Next time, make it worth my while, baby. I love a challenge.”

In a blink, she’s gone as quickly as she came, and I’m left to wonder who the fuck this girl is, and why the hell her kicking me in the face makes me want to fuck her six ways from Sunday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of The Orphans use codenames to protect their identities.
> 
> Tony "Tiger" Sawicki is the group's leader, Delphine "Frenchie" Cormier is their grifter, Cosima "Rhesus" Niehaus is their hacker, Sarah "Limey" Manning is the brain who plans their heists, and Alison "Tippler" Hendrix is their surveillance guru.


	2. Bite Your Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk (although us fanfiction writers should probably take over so that we can fix the colossal mess the show has become), and Orphan Black belongs to John Fawcett and Graeme Manson (who are doing a bang-up job).

January 7, 2012 – Toronto, Canada

"Anyone want to tell me how the fuck we got jacked by the fucking POWDERPUFF GIRLS?!"

I'm standing in the kitchen of our safehouse, some pissy loft that Limey's foster brother left her when he went drinking, snorting, and fucking his way across the continental United States. The bag of frozen peas I have pressed to my busted lip probably makes me look like a pussy, but I'm livid enough to blow a Hot Brunette sized hole in the graffiti-covered drywall.

Rhesus just snorts at my question as she and Frenchie snuggle together on the couch. "You're just mad 'cause some munchkin cleaned your clock in front of the bank."

Her blonde girlfriend looks confused as hell, but she's able to dope out what Rhesus meant from the shit-eating grin she's wearing. "Be nice to your brother, chéri. He had a tough day."

I slam the peas down on the counter cluttered with dishes and take-out menus. "Who the fuck are they? How did they hit OUR mark before we did?"

Tippler takes a long pull from the bottle of tequila she's been nursing and shakes her head. "I had eyes on all the entrances. I didn't get any movement until they came out."

I grind my teeth together and move to throw myself down on the worn leather arm chair in the living room area. Leaning forward with my head in my hands, I count to ten slowly and steadily, 'cause I know I have to calm the fuck down if I'm ever going to figure this shit out.

Get your shit in a pile, Sawicki, I tell myself. Forget about the girl and focus.

"Oi, I think I got something here," Limey calls out from the bed, her laptop perched carefully on her knees. We all rise from our various seats and crowd around the mattress.

She turns the computer around to face us, and dammit if a picture of Hot Brunette isn't front and center on the screen. At least, a younger version of her, anyway. She's got on this killer black one shoulder dress that hugs her body like a second skin. Flawless makeup, heels high as skyscrapers, and hair hanging straight around her face.

The girl's fucking perfection… I almost have to wipe the drool off my chin.

"I used the security footage Alison pulled from the entrance cameras and Cosima's facial recognition software," Limey explains while scrolling down the webpage. "No IDs on the runners, but I got a hit on the girl who put her boot in your grill. Name's Rachel Barbara Berry, daughter of Hiram and Leroy Berry, owners of the Blackbox Theatre in New York City."

"An American?" Frenchie chimes in.

Limey's eyebrow arches up as she reads on. "Apparently she was supposed to be some kind of Broadway prodigy. Girl started acting when she was in diapers... She's got a killer set of pipes, too."

I tune out when she mentions Rachel's voice. God, what I wouldn't give to hear her sing my name for all our neighbors to hear. She'd be begging for me, all hot and wet… "Tony, oh Tony!" "Oh, Tony –"

"Tony?" British twang pulls me out of my short fantasy to find all of them staring at me.

"Shit, my bad," I fumble, clearing my throat. "Think I might have a concussion. Run that by me again."

Like I'm going to tell them I was daydreaming about Rachel's tight –

"I was saying that she had some kind of breakdown after her senior year of high school. Ran off with some boy she was dating and never looked back. Her dads haven't seen her since."

Rhesus puffs her cheeks out with a sigh. "Damn. How the hell did she go from showtunes and autographs to robbing banks and roundhousing T?"

"No fucking clue," I grimace as I tenderly press my finger against my lip. Thankfully the bleeding's stopped, otherwise Tippler's dumb ass would've gone all Mommie Dearest and dragged me to a hospital.

I plop down on the bed and scratch at the scruff on my chin. We need to get in front of this fast, or Berry and her team of cat-burglar supermodels are going to keep moving in on our jobs. And as hot as she is, the only thing I want that girl moving in on is me.

"Sarah, find out how the hell they knew we were hitting TD," I nod to her. "Berry said my codename before she put me down, so she knows who we are and what we do. Find the leak."

She gives me a military salute and gets to work, tuning out the world and tick-tacking away on her computer keyboard.

I then turn to Rhesus. "You hack their tech and figure out how they got in without Alison seeing them. If they used a route we didn't account for, I want to know about it."

"Gotcha. Let's go probe these bitches, Eskimo Pie," she cooes at Frenchie, kissing her cheek and tugging her back toward the couch.

Limey doesn't look up from the screen when she talks again. "What are you and Ali going to do?"

I glance over at the window sill Tippler had been leaning against and find her asleep, cradling her tequila like a teddy bear. I shake my head while letting out a sigh and running a hand through my hair.

"Fuck this, I'm running a bath. I need to think."

Limey hums in agreement as I make my way to the tub, grabbing my Belmonts and Zippo on the way.

This is going to be a long night.


	3. Never Gonna Quit It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk (who still haven't managed to make Faberry canon), and Orphan Black belongs to John Fawcett and Graeme Manson (who should totally make Brophine a thing).

January 12, 2012 – Toronto, Canada

I'm crowing like a rooster as I pull out the good champagne from the cabinet under the sink. Rhesus and Frenchie are trying to convince themselves that they'll be the first couple to actually devour each other's faces, and Limey and Tippler are already starting on Tippler's bottle of amaretto. This is a really exciting day for all of us, because one of our own just got released from the pen this afternoon.

Angel got sent up last year after our heist at Van Rijk Estate Jewelers ended in her accidentally killing a security guard on duty. Us Orphans have a rule: we take what we want and we give nothing back, but we don't hurt anyone if we can help it. Sure, we've put a few people down, but we'd never killed anyone before. The crazy thing about that night is that as soon as she pulled the trigger, Angel told us to get the fuck out as fast as we could. Limey was the only one who protested; they'd always had some kind of special bond that nobody could figure out because Brits and Ukrainians were probably supposed to hate each other or some shit. But Angel knew where she was headed, so she shoved Limey into our van and sent us away.

She pled guilty and they were supposed to put her away for three years, but she's out on probation for good behavior, which shocked the hell out of us. Angel's wild as hell, and for most of the time she's been with us, her behavior has never been described as good, or even okay. There's a reason she's our hitter; she doesn't even need to carry a gun. Girl once took down a bouncer in a nightclub by biting the motherfucker's ear completely off.

Bitch is fucking AWOL.

Now, Angel's dancing around the living room area to The Smiths while I'm pouring the champagne. Her blonde hair is flying all over the place, and she's wearing the clothes they took from her when she went in; a faded Rolling Stones t-shirt that I'm pretty sure belongs to Limey, a pair of men's jeans I lent her the first time we met, and flip-flops she lifted from a shop just because she liked the way they sparkled.

"Alright, Orphans, listen up," I bellow over the music. "Tonight is about celebrating the return of the craziest bitch Canada has ever seen!"

Everyone erupts in cheers, and Angel smiles and takes an awkward bow.

"Tonight, we're going to tear this town a new asshole!" I lift the bottle of champagne high. "Welcome home, Helena."

We all clank our drinks together and scream so loud I'm sure the crotchety bitch of a widow downstairs will complain.

But who gives a fuck? It's family reunion time.  


Angel insists on hitting up some bar on Yonge called Club Zanzibar. Apparently some guy who works there hit on her once before she got sent up, and she wants to see if he'll marry her now.

I'm so glad to have her back, I don't even point out all the ways that plan is completely fucked from the start.

We roll into the club looking fine as fuck. Angel borrowed one of Frenchie's dresses; a simple dark blue dress with a flared out skirt and a pair of off-white wedges. Tippler's wearing some tight pink and black chevron thing with a pair of heels that give her about four inches on all of us. Frenchie and Rhesus are matching like the fucking Tweedles, both in tight black dresses with white feathered hems and silver Louboutins. Limey decided to play up her androgynous side tonight with a graphic t-shirt and blazer, skinny jeans and skate shoes. And I'm rockin' a charcoal gray dress shirt, some jeans, my dark blue paisley snapback, and my new Cool Greys. The bouncer daps me up as I walk in and compliments my Audemars watch, nodding politely as the ladies pass by him.

It's packed as hell, but our VIP table is clean as a whistle and roped off in the front of the club. Sometimes, it pays to live outside the law; management knows that if you're not scared to walk into a bank with a shotgun, you damn sure don't give a fuck about busting a few heads in their club. Shit is like child's play.

Angel skips off to the bar to find her Prince Charming, while Frenchie drags Rhesus out to the dance floor to dry hump like only lesbians in heat can. Limey, Tippler, and I order a bottle of Moet from the waiter and survey the floor, looking over our prospects for the night. I'm in quite a celebratory mood, so I might let one of these lovely ladies find out why they called me "Hickey Sawicki" in high school.

We're laughing at some drunk asshole trying to hit on a college girl when our bottle comes to the table. However, I choke on air when I go to hand the tip to our waiter… who is now a very familiar waitress.

"Hi there, baby," Rachel purrs seductively. "How's the lip?"

Limey's up in Rachel's grill in a heartbeat, ready to crack her face open with the alcohol bottle in her fist, but I put my hand on her arm to tell her to stand down. Tippler snags the booze once Limey lets it rest on the tabletop.

"Why, did you want to kiss it and make it better?" I wink at her and give her a once-over.

Damn, she's looking fine tonight. Little fire engine red dress that shows off the beautiful twins on her ribcage as well as those perfectly sculpted calves. Black wedges that lift her up to a normal height, and hair in loose curls around her face. She sweeps her bangs out of her eyes and I notice the same mischievous twinkle she had just before she tried to make her foot a permanent part of my head.

"I don't think your poor little heart could take it, Tiger."

I scoot out of the booth and stand close enough that I'm sure she can smell my Armani cologne. "You never know until you try."

Rachel's brown eyes flick down toward my lips, and she leans in just enough to let me know she's thinking about it. But before she can make a decision, two other girls appear at her shoulders.

"Who's your friend, Berry Bomb?"

I look over to see a drop-dead gorgeous Latina girl, skin like mocha and hair black as midnight, hovering next to a stunning blonde with a pixie cut. They're both in short dark dresses with a single red stripe up the hip, most likely to compliment their leader.

Rachel licks her lips and runs an index finger down my chest. "Santana, Quinn, this The Orphans' leader, Tiger. He's the nice man you ran over in front of TD."

"Oh, right," the blonde, definitely Quinn by the looks of her smirk, "The Transgender Thundercloud you keep going on about."

I can't help the shit-eating grin that breaks across my face. Rachel ducks her head and blushes at me before staring daggers at Quinn. Santana, however, seems to be more interested in Limey, who has been making eyes at her ever since they approached our table.

"And who might you be, cutie?" She maneuvers around Rachel and me so that she can ghost a hand over Limey's cheek.

Limey clears her throat and gives Santana a smile. "Name's Sarah. The Orphans call me Limey."

Santana's eyes darken a bit when she hears the foreign tones in Limey's voice. "I think I'll stick with Sarah, baby. How does that sound?"

I chuckle when Limey nods like an idiot and allows Santana to lead her to the dance floor. Quinn goes to sit next to Tippler, who is already on her third drink, leaving Rachel and I to our own devices.

"So," I smirk, tracing her jawline with my index finger. "Transgender Thundercloud, huh? Damn, girl."

God, even the way she flips me off is sexy as all hell.

"Okay then, Berry, riddle me this," I push my hands down into my pockets to keep from burying them in her hair. "How the hell do you know who we are?"

My question causes her to tip her head back in a full body laugh that's easily more beautiful than a million smiles from a million girls.

"The Orphans are legends, Tiger," Rachel giggles as she runs her fingers up my arm. "Everyone knows who you are. Your family is made up of some of the best thieves in the history of crime."

I smirk at this. She's totally not wrong.

The Orphans are the best robbers in Canada, and we have been since we all met in Pelican Bay as teenagers. If we can't steal it, it can't be stolen. Period.

Her digits curl around my bicep and give it a soft squeeze. I move to let my palm rest on the small of her back, pulling her in closer so that I can speak right next to her ear.

"You think you're the only one who's done their homework, Rachel Berry?"

She shivers when I say her name, and I tighten my grip to show her that I'm definitely feeling the heat between us too.

"You know who I am," she breathes, pupils all blown and sexy. "Don't you think it's only fair you tell me something about you? Like, your real name, perhaps?"

Now it's my turn to laugh out loud. "Orphan Code, baby. No names, no background. Name's Tiger to you and everybody but my team."

"Fine," Rachel snorts at my response and pulls out of my arms altogether so that I can look into her sparkling eyes. "Then we want to challenge you."

"Challenge us? As in, The Orphans?" I don't believe this shit. Her and her little band of woodland sprites think they can take on the best robbers in the country? Bullshit.

"Yes. Me, Santana, and Quinn against you, Limey, Tippler, Rhesus, Frenchie, and Angel. Biggest haul keeps it all."

I have to say, I'm definitely impressed. These girls really have a set on them, thinking they can just breeze into our town looking to take down our rep. Sure, they're all gorgeous, but looks don't make up for the fact that they're in way over their heads. Not only are they outnumbered, but they are so outgunned, it isn't even funny. We'll crush them like the ladybugs they are and send them back to the States with some good stories to tell.

"You've got yourself a deal, Miss Berry. I look forward to kicking that delicious ass of yours."

Rachel just shakes her head and smiles. "Care to make it a little more interesting?"

"Why not?" I shrug at her like I don't notice how close her lips are to my cheek right now.

"If we win," she whispers against my skin, and I can feel myself getting a little hotter under the collar. "You, Tiger, have to tell me your name."

Fuck. I totally want to accept her wager, just so she knows I'm not a pussy, but Rachel knowing my name could put me in a shitload of trouble. She could burn me big time if she ever decided to get chatty with anybody important. But fuck if standing this close to her and touching her skin and smelling her fan-fucking-tastic perfume isn't messing with me.

"Fine," my mouth says before my head can stop it.

She turns to go, and while I'm still in a daze of her kiss and her voice and Dolce & Gabbana, she stops and calls to me. "Oh, and Tiger?"

"Yeah, baby?"

The white object she tosses my way is a blur in the dim light of the club, but I grab it without a second thought. I look down at it and realize that she'd lifted my iPhone from my pocket at some point during our little conversation.

When I lift my gaze to tell her off, she's already gone.

What the fuck did I just get myself into?


	4. Think About How To Think

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glee belongs to Ryan Murphy and Brad Falchuk (who should stop making Faberry promises they can't keep), and Orphan Blackbelongs to John Fawcett and Graeme Manson (who are probably going to knock our socks off with Season 3).

January 19, 2012 – Toronto, Canada

It's the first time I've been alone in the loft in months.

Rhesus and Frenchie are having some kind of 'monthly meeting of the nerd herd'; I'm pretty sure they're playing League of Legends and taking vodka shots with Scott in his apartment downstairs. Tippler's spending time with her kids, which I'm actually kind of glad for. She's been drinking a lot more lately, and her visitation hours with Gemma and Oscar normally keep the monkey off her back for a few weeks. I think Limey's out with Santana somewhere... thank the fucking Lord. I'm getting sick of hearing them try to fuck quietly in the bedroom area while everyone's trying to sleep. I swear, if I have to hear "Dios mio, baby, I'm cumming!" one more time, I'll take a fucking axe to both of them. And Angel went out after breakfast this morning; said she needed to see the Swan Man about a fish.

Whatever the fuck that means.

I've spent my sacred alone time lounging around in a wifebeater and my Calvin Klein briefs, watching Harry Potter movies on TV. Say what they want; my family knows that four-eyed motherfucker is totally bad-ass.

"She said we're dressed in black from head to toe;

We got guns hidden under our petticoats.

No, we're never gonna quit it.

No, we're never gonna quit it, no..."

I'm about to give myself my weekly shot of Big T when I hear my iPhone ring on the coffee table in front of me. I'm confused as hell at first, because I don't give people personalized ringtones; shit's a fucking waste of time. It's only when I glance down at my screen that the song choice makes sense.

Berry Sexy, I think to myself as I see the contact name. Definitely fits.

I drop my syringe on the couch cushion and scoop up my phone, sliding my finger across the screen to answer it and wedging it between my shoulder and my ear to free up my hands.

"What's up, Berr-ly Legal?"

"Fuck you, Pussy Cat," I can hear the laugh in her voice as I go back to prepping my dose, flicking the needle chamber with my middle finger. "Am I interrupting anything?"

"Baby, I'm the Pussy Monster." She actually does laugh at that one.

I shrug my shoulders even though she can't see me. "And nah, just about to stab myself with a needle. Nothing major."

I give her a second to process what I said, and I can almost hear the realization dawn on her through the phone. "Testosterone?"

"You're quick, Berry, I'll give you that."

"Trust me, baby, I'm anything but quick. Normally, I take all night –"

My thumb nearly slips off the plunger when I hear that. Fuck, this girl has to know what she does to me.

I clear my throat and pray that the fog in my head clears. "I know you didn't just call to flirt with me, Rach. What can I do you for?"

"Actually," Rachel seems like she's thinking about what her next words should be. "I was calling to ask if you had any plans tonight. There's something I'd like you to see."

Well, fuck me running. Rachel Berry, former Broadway prodigy turned criminal mastermind, wants to take me on a date? There's no way there aren't strings attached to this. Watch yourself, Sawicki, I remind my racing pulse. This one's dangerous.

"Unless that something is you naked on a pile of my stolen cash, I don't think it's going to happen, kiddo."

She snorts at that. "Cut the 'kiddo', Tiger. You can't be more than a few years older than me."

I take a deep breath and jam the syringe into the meat of my thigh before I answer, my voice tight with the dull pain. "Please, Baby Berry. I was through with it before you even knew what to do with it."

Rachel gives me another full laugh, although the phone definitely doesn't do it justice. I totally prefer hearing it in person… Shit sounds like a fucking three part harmony or something.

"So is that a yes, then?"

Don't you fucking do it, Sawicki, the voice of reason in my head (which sounds a lot like Limey's voice… I file that shit under "be creeped the fuck out later") head warns me firmly. Wait until the family gets back. Don't go in there without a plan, or she'll wipe the floor with you.

"Yeah, sure," I agree before I can stop myself. "You picking me up, Berry Pie? Your date, your gas."

What the fuck is wrong with you?! Quit thinking with your other head and focus!

"Of course, baby," Rachel's voice drops into that low, raspy tone that she has to know is turning me on. "Be outside your loft at 8. Bring booze."

She makes a kissing sound and hangs up. I should be thinking about how the fuck she got our address, but instead I'm wondering why her not saying goodbye bothers me so damn much.

Rachel pulls into the alley behind our building at 8 PM sharp. I'm leaning against the ugly green painted brick wall next to the back stairs, and I squint my eyes when her headlights blast me right in the face.

She unlocks the passenger door of the matte black Audi R8 and I plop myself down in the smooth leather seat. I turn to her once I've pulled the door closed, and holy fucking shit.

My skin feels like I'm tightrope walking across the surface of the sun.

Rachel's got this black bandana tied around her head, her bone straight brunette locks falling out from under it like a fucking waterfall. Dark leather moto jacket, this fitted graphic t-shirt from BASTILLE's Dublin concert, and the tiniest little high waisted jean shorts that leave absolutely nothing to my fucking filthy imagination.

I don't know how long I sat there gaping at her like a fucking moron, but apparently it was enough time for Rachel to throw the car in reverse, back out of the alleyway and onto the street. She glances my way with a smirk playing at her lips, The 1975's "Robbers" playing softly through the speaker system.

"Close your mouth, Tiger," she winks, the way the streetlights catch the metallic flecks in her sexy smoky eye makeup totally doing things to me.

I recover quickly and wipe my suddenly sweaty palms on the knees of my jeans. "I think I preferred your cute little catsuit. You look like you're trying to impress someone tonight."

"Maybe I am. Are you impressed?"

I smirk right back and let my eyes smolder into hers. You won't win this game, Princess… No one out-flirts Tony Sawicki. "Totally."

The air around us crackles with the sexual tension, and my fingernails bite into my thigh through my pants so my hands don't reach out and wander over those magnificent legs. There's something about a lady who knows how to work a stick shift… Shit's hot as fuck.

"Did you bring the spirits, baby?"

I hold up the brown paper bag I brought with me and shake it a little so she can hear the liquid hitting the walls of the bottle inside. "What are we celebrating?"

She just giggles and shakes her head. "You'll see soon enough. Be patient."

Fuck being patient. I'd honestly like to skip this formality bullshit and fuck her on the hood of this beautiful machine. God, she'd be sexy as hell, holding onto my hair and using that beautiful voice to scream my name while I eat her like I'm starving.

I don't have a chance to ask her where she's taking me, because she glides the car alongside a nearby curb and shifts it into park. Pressing the button to shut off the engine, Rachel opens her door and climbs out with me hot on her heels. When I take a look around, I'm even more confused.

We're back at the entrance to TD Canada Trust.

"You bring me back here to gloat, Berry? A little premature, don't you think?"

Rachel chuckles and takes my hand (which I don't squeal like a little girl in my head about, fuck you very much). She leads me down the sidewalk and around the side of the dark towering structure to an alley blocked by a few wooden shipping pallets.

"I didn't bring you here to gloat. I brought you here to save you and your Orphans some time."

What the fuck is she talking about?

"The firewall Quinn set up to protect all of our tech picked up an intruder nosing around in our schematics. I knew it was Rhesus digging for our TD entry and exit plans. I thought I'd save her some work by just showing you how we got in."

I swear, this girl will never run out of ways to mind-fuck me.

Rhesus once hacked into the CSIS mainframe and put the entire cast of Degrassi: The Next Generation on the No Fly list, simply to prove that she could do it without being caught. In the four years since, not a soul has come looking for her (probably 'cause most countries are glad that fucking awful bunch of actors can't invade them). Rhesus is a fucking genius hacker… Which is why Fabray picking up on her scoping out their files really skeeves me the fuck out.

Rachel moves the pallets out of the way (her strength surprises the ever-living fuck out of me) and pulls me down the alley by my blue flannel shirt sleeve until we're standing next to some kind of service door.

"We parked my car at the northern end of the alley three hours before the job," she explains like this is fucking elementary school science class or some shit. "We saw Alison set up to watch the south entrance from the roof across the street. The shipping pallets were stacked and the alley was shaded enough that she never even knew we were there."

I run my hand through my hair and curse these girls under my breath. "But Rhesus would've –"

"Quinn hacked into the bank's security system and neutralized the door alarm from the car. On Rhesus's end, it would've look as though the janitors had opened it to take the trash out."

Fuck. Fuckety fuck fuck. My mouth is dry and my hands are numb and I'm pissed the fuck off and slightly turned on by how easily they played us. These amateurs fucking schooled us, the greatest armed robbery syndicate in Canada, on our own fucking turf. We were supposed to have home field advantage and they blindsided us like fucking linebackers.

Rachel looks so fucking proud, I think she might burst her appendix or something. "So… Are you impressed now?"

"Frustrated? Yes," I scratch my chin and blow out a sigh. "Impressed? Not yet, Berry Bomb."

She takes a step toward me, so close that I can feel her breath against my jaw. Her hand moves from my shirt sleeve to my chest, and fuck if I don't try to keep my heart from beating its way out of my chest.

"Not even a little bit, baby?" Her bottom lip forms this pout that makes me want to nip at it with my teeth. "I tried so hard for you…"

Oh holy fuck, Sawicki. This girl is pretty much begging you for it.

"Fuck it," I growl and smash our mouths together.

I'm easily dominating the kiss (although I have a lingering feeling that Rachel's probably letting me), curling my tongue around hers and letting my thumbs rub circles into her hip bones through her shirt. Rachel's fingernails bear into the skin at the nape of my neck as she pulls me closer, like she can't get enough of me. I back us up so that my body presses hers against the brick wall of the bank and trail hot kisses along the soft spot behind her ear.

She smells like chocolate and theft and genius and fuck if I don't love it. I think I might have fallen for her the moment her Doc Marten connected with my face. We got married when I hit the ground.

Her hips push into mine and I know she can feel my packer through my jeans. I'm just about to lift her silky thigh to wrap around my waist so we can grind out some of this fucking tension when I hear a loud whistle from the mouth of the alley we came through.

I pull my tongue away from her deliciously sweet neck and whip my head around to see just who the fuck is trying to butt in, but my jaw drops when I see the whistle's source.

Santana Lopez and Quinn Fabray are standing there like fucking God's gift to leather, catsuits and skull caps all decked out in black. Rappelling harnesses and ropes hang loosely around their slim waists. They're wearing matching smirks and holding what looks like two large duffle bags between them.

No. Fuck no.

I've had nightmares about those fucking duffle bags since the first time I saw them being carried away with MY money inside. But why were they here? Did they hit another bank and come to show Rachel the fruits of their labor or something?

I turn back to Rachel and that tell-tale sparkle in those big brown eyes tells me everything I need to know.

"Hope you don't mind us using your original plan," she giggles, that fucking shit-eating grin on her face making me more nauseous than I can ever remember being. "Give our compliments to Limey. Using you as a distraction and coming in from the roof? Stroke of genius."

My mouth feels like the fucking Sahara desert. "Hold the fucking phone –"

She maneuvers out of my embrace and starts backing toward her partners, her black high top Converses thumping against the gravel. "I told you there was something I wanted you to see. Think of it as a demonstration of our skills."

Fuck, if I could move my legs right now, I'd be all up in her grill. She's fucking taunting me; taunting US. Situation unacceptable. The shock takes its time running through me as I try to wrap my head around what the fuck just happened.

Rachel Berry and her team just hit the same fucking bank they stole out from underneath us… Using the same entry and exit plans Limey drew up for us… And the cocky bitches did it all while I was standing right outside?!

My shock melts into anger and I can feel that little vein that runs along my temple pulsing like crazy.

Rachel just crosses her arms like she just put the last nail in my coffin. "Score's two nothing, Tiger. I'm sure you can find your way home."

As they all climb into the Audi and speed off down Yonge Street, I'm left standing in a dimly lit alley, in the shadow of a bank Rachel Berry has swiped from me yet again, and trying to figure out how the hell I could find her making me look like a complete dumbass hot as fuck.


End file.
